


that kind of girl

by doileys



Category: Archie Comics & Related Fandoms, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Sexual Harrassment, slutshaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-02-09 23:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18647866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doileys/pseuds/doileys
Summary: Betty is still awake, mumbling something unintelligible, but her tone is sobering enough to pull Jughead out of his thoughts and meet her gaze. His bedroom is dark and blonde hair is splayed over her features, but he can still see the searing blue boring into him.“What?” His voice is barely above a whisper, suddenly wary of disrupting the quietness. “What is it, Betty?”“Why couldn’t it have been you?” She says, her voice trembling. She almost sounds like she might cry, and Jughead does not miss the implications of her question.His breath hitches.He wonders if he’s still dreaming.--Or, Betty becomes the latest victim of Riverdale High's unforgiving rumor mill, and Jughead finds himself caught in the thick of it all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE 10/16/19: A key plot point in this story involves a sexual act with dubious consent and its ramifications. It's only ever referenced, but it is a prominent enough part of the story that I'd feel guilty for not warning readers first. I have accordingly tagged this story with the necessary warnings, so please refer back to those for a heads up on any content that may be triggering.

 

 

> _“You spend a long time waiting for life to start—the past year or two filled with all these firsts, everything new and terrifying and significant—and then it does start and you realize it isn’t what you’d expected, or asked for."_
> 
> \- Megan Abbott

 

*

 

Jughead is in the middle of a harsh slumber when his cell phone rings.

He jolts awake, eyes flashing open at the bouncing marimba. A dull ache that has settled into his neck, bent at an awkward angle, as his hair and face mussed into his bedroom carpet. A video game controller is still in his limp grasp, and his television screen glows red. _Game Over._

His iPhone is a few feet away, rattling in its slick gel case. The screen is blinding in the darkness that engulfs his bedroom, and he has to spend a moment blinking blearily down at it before he can make out the contact name. _Betty Cooper._

He does not conceal the confusion from his tone as he mumbles a sleepy greeting into the receiver, stretching in an attempt to will away both the drowsiness and the ache in his neck. Betty, for all of the summer afternoons spent in Archie’s backyard and dinners spent poring over homework at Pop’s, never calls him. Especially on a Saturday night.

“Jughead?” Betty’s voice is a nervous crinkle on the other side, grabbing his attention. “Jughead, I’m sorry. I’m _really_ sorry—”

“Hnuh?” Jughead dumbly squawks, straining to hear her over the static hissing through the speaker. “Betty, whatsa’ matter?”

“Can you come pick me up?” She pushes the words all out at once, and it is enough to pull Jughead out of his stupor. He can _hear_ the tremble in Betty’s voice, and it awakens an urgent tentativeness that is usually reserved for Archie or Jellybean.

Part of him wonders if he is still dreaming, face still pressed against his carpet.

“Please?” Betty continues, her voice tinny and fragile. “I’m at Sweetwater River. _Please,_ Jughead. I’m sorry about calling you so late. I just don’t—” Her voice breaks and she goes silent, like she is steeling herself. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

He is already up, blindly meandering around his room with the cell phone lodged between his shoulder and his face. His feet kick against a discarded pair of pajama pants – he pauses to sniff and assess their cleanliness – and he tries to shimmy into them without losing balance. “Bets, what’re you doing at the river?”

Jughead immediately regrets the question. He hears a sniffle on the other end, like a warning, and the next time Betty speaks, her words are flooded with sobs. The static doesn’t help. Jughead can’t glean any understanding from her distorted explanation.

Girls are always crying over something, Jughead thinks. But not Betty, never Betty, who once took a groundball to the face during junior high softball, tearing straight through her lip and to her row of bottom braces, and never once whimpered. Even when they were sticky-mouthed kids, playing in the street even though their parents told them not to, she would bite back the wetness in her eyes after slamming against the pavement, sodden roses blooming on her kneecaps. She never wanted to look like a crybaby.

“Betty – _Betty calm down_.” He almost raises his voice to be heard over her cries, to snap her out of whatever hysteria she has fallen into, but then he thinks of Jellybean in the adjacent room, deep in toes-curled slumber, and stops himself.

Gentler and more warily, like trying to soothe a colicky baby, he assures her, “I’m on my way. I’ll be there in ten – no, seven minutes. Okay?”

Amid her cries, she manages to croak out, “Okay. Okay, Jughead. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Jughead ends the call and slides his phone into his pants' pocket. His eyes are getting more adjusted to the darkness, enough that he can identify the dark bundle dangling off of the edge of his bed as his favorite t-shirt. He pulls the fabric over his head and begins patting on his dresser’s veneer until his fingers clasp around his keys, and he starts for his bedroom door.

Jughead has never snuck out of the house before, and he almost surprises himself with the smoothness and certainty that all of his actions carry. A perk of observance, he supposes. That freaky memory that Archie always references. Jughead knows his family and this doublewide like the back of his hand, knows how one step on the sunken patch of carpet in the living room feels like it is shaking the whole house, and how far to open the screen door before it squeals loud enough to be heard from his parents’ bedroom.  

Sunnyside looks like a ghost town. The Saturday night promise of debauchery have sent many of its inhabitants to the Whyte Whyrm’s gum-slicked bar, and those less hedonistic have long since turned in for the night, leaving the trailer park in eerie silence. The crunch of gravel underneath Jughead’s footsteps sounds especially disruptive amid the emptiness.

The interior of his pocked Altima smells like vanilla, courtesy of an air freshener that Jellybean had looped around his rearview mirror one afternoon. “It smells like a McDonald’s in here,” she had said, her nose wrinkling as she eyed the hamburger wrappers blanketing the floorboards. Jughead didn’t think that was necessarily a bad thing.

The car hums to life and the radio reads 10:14. He envisions Betty, shivering and alone on the edge of Sweetwater River’s haunting black waters, and it sparks a fervent determination within him.

He shifts gears and speeds for the entire drive.

*

Betty is standing at the river’s makeshift parking lot, a flattened patch of land where everyone parks while they swim during the summer, and the flash of approaching headlights that swallow her form is unforgiving. With those lights staring into her, she can’t see Jughead, but she knows that he is there. He is thankful for that, glad that she can’t see the surprise that flickers across his face at her current state.

Her face is streaked black, her mascara-spattered eyes rubbed red and shining with unshed tears. Her dress looks like it was once a frothy pink, but it’s lower half is now murky and mud-dappled, drooping. Her hair, out of its trademark ponytail, hangs in tousled curls down her back. Looking at her attire, Jughead belatedly remembers that tonight was Riverdale High’s homecoming dance.

She slinks towards the car's passenger side almost nervously, her arms drawn in, clutching her purse. When she pops the car door open and settles beside him, the waft of alcohol is like a sucker punch.

“Jesus _,_ Bets,” he grimaces. “What happened?”

Betty’s head slumps against the seat, like a broken doll, and she says nothing.

Jughead’s gaze is drawn to her trembling hands, her pebbled arms. The dead leaves whirling outside, shaking loose from the trees. He begins to fidget with the car's air conditioner, turning the heat on high.

He’s waiting for the explanation to come.

“Betty?” He tries again, softer now, a swirl of doom curling in his gut at this uncharacteristic silence. “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head, her blonde hair mussing against the seat. Her voice is barely above a whisper, almost lost to the loud whir of the air vents. “Please don’t, Jughead. Please.”

His mouth opens and shuts. He tries to remember the last time he has seen her like this, a dejected shell of her usual sunny demeanor and little-sister smiles. He draws a blank and this, too, worries him.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles again, her tongue sounding thick in her mouth. Her head is bowed, so he can’t see her eyes. He doesn’t think he wants her eyes. “I’m such a bad person.”

Jughead sees a teardrop bounce against the seat, and his mind shifts into overdrive. Quickly, he says, “Drinking doesn’t make you a bad person, Bets.”

“It… It’s not that,” she sniffles. Jughead can hear the way her chin is violently bobbing up and down, wavering her voice. “I mean. It _is_ that, but it’s something else too.”

Jughead leans in without realizing it, his interest piqued.

“Why _her?”_  

The question comes out as a bitter whimper. Betty lifts her head to look up at him, and her grief is splayed open, so candid that it is almost painful to see. “Why not me?”

It takes him a moment to understand what she is referring to, but the realization hits him like lightning. The pang of sympathy that resonates in him is not unfamiliar, but it’s never been this poignant before.

He remembers it once before, nestled into a booth at Pop’s. The four of them recounting a mundane day at Riverdale High. Amid their jubilance, Jughead notices the wistful expression that Betty is wearing, her eyes trained on Archie. Then he notices Archie’s attention is fixated on Veronica, who is fervently chattering on. The dreamy glint in Archie’s eyes, the two of them wedged side-by-side in that booth, the diner lights low. Jughead suddenly feels like he is intruding on something intimate, and it flusters him. He can’t imagine how Betty felt, watching Archie’s avid eyes.

He wonders what could have happened at that dance, what Betty witnessed, to make all of those longing stares and pensive sighs finally culminate into this throbbing despair.

Betty looks at him like she is expecting an answer, her eyes glassy and desperate.

Jughead opens his mouth and shuts it again. All of the quips and nuggets of wisdom that tumble freely from him when he consoles a moping Archie, with his auburn head bowed over a poor Algebra score or a date gone sour, they all leave his mind in the presence of this shiny despair. Because while Archie’s mood seems to change with the tides, fluctuating between frantic highs and gloomy lows, Betty always maintains unshakable tranquility. He doesn’t know how to react to this tender dejection, this genuine defeat.

 “I’m really sorry Betty,” Jughead finally says. He isn’t entirely sure what he is apologizing for.

When she rests her forehead against the console and begins to sob, Jughead combs his fingers through her hair and tries to be as consoling as he can.

*

He isn’t sure how long they sit there, but eventually, Betty’s sobs fade into occasional sniffles, and his car begins to make that odd rattling noise that it does when it’s been idling for too long. He moves his hand from where it rests on Betty’s shoulder blade and shifts the car into drive.

Betty stirs, her voice still wobbly. “Where are we going?”

“Um.” He blinks at her, his foot digging into the brake pedal. “You wanted me to drop you off at home, right? Isn’t that why you called me?”

She falls silent like she is trying to remember. Finally, she moans, “My mom is going to kill me.”

Then, jolting upwards so quickly that she startles Jughead, “ _My mom is going to kill me.”_

The realization shakes something loose within her and she’s suddenly frantic, watery eyes skittering around the car. When they focus on the time blinking from the radio, she almost gasps.

“Jughead, my curfew was at ten. _Ten!_ ”

She settles on her tarnished dress as if noticing it for the first time. Jughead can hear the sob that is forming in her throat. “I can’t go home like this! What am I going to do?”

The car goes right back into park, Jughead turning towards her. “Calm down, Betty. It’s gonna be okay.”

“God, I am so dead,” she breathes, not hearing him. “There’s no way she won’t know.”

Jughead imagines Alice Cooper’s icy eyes, flashing with rage, and that snappy grit in her voice, and he knows that Betty’s reaction isn’t at all overdramatic.

Then, a lightbulb. His face brightens.

“Hand me your phone,” he says, holding his hand out.

Betty turns towards him, her face white with panic. Her expression falls when she processes his demand. She almost says something, but she bows her head instead, mumbling. “It won’t work.”

“What?”

“I dropped it after I got off of the phone with you, and now it won’t turn back on,” she explains, revealing the device in her hand. It is encrusted in mud, and the cracks create an intricate web on the darkened screen. Betty sighs. “She’s gonna kill me for _that,_ too. iPhones are so expensive.”

Jughead’s shoulders fall as another stroke of pity for his friend passes. His hands slide to his own phone, wedged in his front pocket. “Do you know her number?”

Betty blinks up at him, her eyes big and confused. “You’re not going to call her, are you?”

“No. Of course not,” Jughead shakes his head. “I think I can keep your mom from finding out about… all of _this_ ,” he gestures awkwardly, still not sure of what “this” even entails, “but it’s a gamble. Do you trust me?”

Betty still looks doubtful, but she finally relents after a pregnant silence.

After entering Alice’s phone number, Jughead’s thumbs bounce against his screen with practiced ease, the gears in his mind turning.

**Hey Mrs. Cooper this is Veronica Lodge. Betty dropped her phone @ the dance & it won’t turn back on so she hasn’t been able to call u. Is it OK if she sleeps over @ my house?**

He reads and rereads the message before pressing send. He barely has time to pray before three dots are bouncing across the screen, quickly replaced by a new message from Alice.

**K. Tell her to be home by 9 tmrw.**

Jughead releases a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, and he turns towards Betty with a reassuring smile. “Your mom said that she wouldn’t mind if you stayed over at my place.”

“I’m not drunk enough to believe _that_ ,” Betty deadpans, looking at him with hooded eyes.

He has to bite back a laugh. “She thinks you’re staying at Veronica’s.”

Betty’s already flat expression sours, and she vaguely mutters, “I can’t go to Veronica’s.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Jughead shrugs. “You would’ve called her instead of me if you could.”

It’s said matter-of-factly, and he doesn’t _really_ mean for it to sting, but Betty still winces. She curls her fingers and mumbles, “So… what now?”

“You’re staying at my place,” Jughead answers like it is the most natural thing in the world. “Duh.”

That surprises Betty, and she nervously blinks up at him. “I— um… You—You don’t mind? I don’t want to impose.”

“Oh, _come on,_ ” Jughead almost groans, reaching over and playfully tousling her hair. She makes a sound of protest at the action, her own hands flying up to pry his fingers away. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let the heart of Riverdale sleep on the streets.”

Betty laughs at that, her expression brightening for the first time, and Jughead feels a weight lift off of his shoulders.

*

Climbing his trailer’s front porch steps, Jughead has to help Betty move. She shed her high heels during the drive, tucked messily underneath Jughead’s passenger seat. Her bare feet scrape against the porch, creating a quiet swishing sound. He squeezes her shoulder as he eases the front door open, beckoning her to be quiet.

He all but steers her into his bedroom as quickly as he can, finally struck with the fear of being caught. He is thankful that his parents’ room is on the opposite side of the house, that they won’t be able to hear the second set of footsteps.

Shutting his bedroom door tight, he pats at the wall until he finds the light switch. His eyes are now so accustomed to the darkness that the light is nearly blinding. He hisses at it, then jokingly growls, “The light – it _burns.”_

Betty breathes a laugh, her face also scrunched up at the brightness. They share a moment of nervous laughter – more at the ridiculousness of the situation than the little joke – until Jughead’s attention is stolen by something that immediately subdues his mirth. 

It’s only now, awash in the bedroom light, that he notices it. Popping and vibrant against her ivory complexion, the hickey on the crook of her neck looks so out of place that it commands attention.

Jughead averts his gaze before she notices him gawking at it, the tips of his ears burning. His hand goes towards the back of his own neck, sheepishly rubbing there. Whatever happened tonight, _that_ was a clear byproduct of it.

Part of him still wants to ask, to gently probe until Betty divulges the night’s events, but he thinks back to her quiet plea when she first crawled into his passenger seat. _“Please don’t, Jughead. Please.”_

He doesn’t know why he feels so awkward.

Oblivious to his shift in mood, Betty observes the television, the _Game Over_ still mockingly plastered on the screen. “Sorry I interrupted your game.”

Jughead pauses just long enough to send a brief glance at the screen himself. “You didn’t. It’s fine.”

A silence settles between them as Jughead sets about his room, sifting through the drawers of his dresser, with Betty still nervously fidgeting in the middle of the room. He turns to face her with a lump of clothing in his grasp. “Unless you want to sleep in a prom dress, here’s some pajamas. These pants are too small for me, so they might fit you.”

Betty almost drops the clothes when he ushers them into her hands, blinking owlishly. “Um. Okay.”

He starts for the door, a hand going up to scratch at his scalp. “I gotta piss. You can change while I’m gone.”

She’s still frozen in place when he shuts the door behind him.

*

 “You’re not sleeping on your own bedroom floor.”

Betty is frowning at him, looking the soberest she has all night. That familiar spark in her eyes is returning, and it puts Jughead at ease.

 “It’s _my_ room, Bets. I’ll sleep wherever I damn well please.” He is halfheartedly adjusting his pillow and blanket – both Pokémon print, from fourth grade sleepaway camp – on the floor with his feet, making it resemble a cot more than just a heap of fabric. “Now get in the bed, you good-for-nothing drunk.”

“Juggie—" she starts, but he is already ushering her towards the bed like a mother with a reluctant child, steering her by her shoulders.

“ _To the bed,_ Betty. You’re probably already going to have one hell of a headache tomorrow. You don’t want a backache on top of it.”

She can’t argue with his logic, but she still spends a moment hovering nervously at his bedside, fidgeting with the cuffs of her - _his -_ shirt. His old pajamas wound up nearly swallowing her whole, the ends of the plaid pants bunching up on the carpet.

She waits until he has settled into his makeshift bed before she folds the comforter back and climbs onto the mattress. 

Jughead stares at the ceiling, arms folded on top of his blanket, blinking up at the luminescent star stickers that he and Archie stuck up there when they were still in elementary school. Despite his earlier video game-induced slumber, his bedroom floor is _uncomfortable_. The crick in his neck still hasn’t gone away, and he isn’t even really sleepy anymore, not after the evening has taken such an unexpected turn.

Belatedly, he realizes that Betty has never been to his house before. They always congregated at Archie’s, a place of common interest and domestic bliss until his parents’ divorce last year. Jughead had always been reluctant about going to Betty’s house when Archie suggested, fearful that Alice Cooper had plastic-wrapped couches and exclusively healthy snacks. There was a hesitance around the Cooper sisters too, high school Polly with her candied effervescence and Betty’s clear preference for Archie. Try as they might to include him, Jughead always felt like a third wheel whenever Betty was around.

Betty is still awake, mumbling something unintelligible, but her tone is sobering enough to pull Jughead out of his thoughts and meet her gaze. His bedroom is dark and blonde hair is splayed over her features, but he can still see the searing blue boring into him.

“What?” His voice is barely above a whisper, suddenly wary of disrupting the quietness. “What is it, Betty?”

“Why couldn’t it have been you?” She says, her voice trembling. She almost sounds like she might cry, and Jughead does not miss the implications of her question.

His breath hitches.

He wonders if he’s still dreaming.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE 10/16/19: A key plot point in this story involves a sexual act with dubious consent and its ramifications. It's only ever referenced, but it is a prominent enough part of the story that I'd feel guilty for not warning readers first. I have accordingly tagged this story with the necessary warnings, so please refer back to those for a heads up on any content that may be triggering.
> 
> hey! listen! this chapter has some (very) crude language at the end. just a head's up if that isn't your cup of tea.
> 
> thanks so much for all of the kudos and comments on the first chapter! they always make me smile :)

 

*

 

The ramifications of the night stretch through Betty’s entire Sunday.

Jughead ushers her out of bed when both the sun and the rest of Riverdale are still asleep, the streetlights coning around them as he drops her off at home. She tiptoes inside and showers before her mother can see, shoves both the sullied prom dress and Jughead’s pajamas under her bed. She takes another Tylenol PM (even though Jughead had already made her huff down two regular ones) and tries to fool herself into thinking that the entire night was a bizarre hallucination.

Curled in the little floral cocoon that her comforter provides, her fairy lights casting strange shadows on the walls, Betty fades in and out of hangover sleep.

It’s mostly snapshots of her at the river, of her dress’ material scratching up her back, warm hands skirting around her waist. Dark eyes boring into her, scorching her skin. She opens her mouth to say something, and a scream dies in her throat when her jaw unhinges. Black water comes flowing out of her on its own accord, murky and eerie like Sweetwater River, and it’s suddenly all she can see. It encompasses her; she feels like she is drowning.

Betty awakens from one of them with a start, and dry heaves over her wastebasket until her heart stops pounding in her ears.

 

*

 

Sunday night, a sharp rap against her door almost startles Betty off of the edge of her bed. Alice glides in shortly after, her red mouth twisted in a disgruntled frown, her feet crunching under bobby pins – residue from yesterday’s homecoming preparations.

Betty braces herself for the lecture. She has been anticipating it all day. Despite sharing little more than a greeting this morning, despite that glower that seems to always mar her pretty features, Betty has learned to pinpoint the alleviations and aggravations in her mother’s unending scrutiny. She can identify it in the heavy way her footsteps fade up and down the stairs, the clamor of dishes in the sink, the deafening silence they have regarded with each other for the majority of the day.  

Betty thinks back to yesterday afternoon, sitting at her vanity, Alice looping strands of her hair around a fat curling wand. Betty kept avoiding her eyes in the reflection, the way they shone with a mixture of concern and disapproval. Alice’s disdain for teenaged gatherings began when Betty was still in fourth grade, when middle-school Polly returned from a birthday party with a rivulet of hickeys and a starry glint in her eyes.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you _,_ ” Alice had assured her, tucking a flyaway back, her acrylic nail scraping against the shell of Betty’s ear. “I don’t trust _them._ When other kids are involved, you can get into a lot of trouble without ever meaning to, Elizabeth.”

Now, Betty feels a pang of guilt for betraying her mother’s trust, for lying to her and upsetting her. She fights the urge to curl tighter into her comforter, to hide like a little girl. If anything, she _has_ to be peeved about the broken iPhone.

However, instead of a sharp reprimand, Alice just says, “Archie’s little friend is downstairs.”

It takes a moment for Betty to process the statement, her brain still sloshing around in her skull. She almost thinks her mom is referring to Veronica and the idea makes her heart spur, until she continues, “Go see what he wants before he clears out the pantry.”

She is so tightly wound into herself that untangling from the bed takes more effort than usual, nearly tripping over herself in the process. She is almost to the stairs when Alice finally asks, “Aren’t you hot in that hoodie, Elizabeth?”

Betty adjusts the hood, makes it ride up higher on her neck, and responds with a stiff “No. I’m comfortable.”

She shuffles downstairs before her mother can ask any more questions.

 

 

Jughead is standing in the center of the living room, erect and unmoving, a damp-bottomed paper bag in his hand. He looks laughably uncomfortable, and his eyes keep bouncing between the front door and the staircase.

“Hey,” Betty says, padding down the last stairs. She musters a small smile, and it comes easier than she expected.

His jumping eyes land on her, and the relief that washes over Jughead’s features is astounding. “Bets. You’re _mom_ —”

“I _know_ ,” she nods, closing the distance between them.

He looks surprised at her interjection, before relaxing a bit. “I forgot to take my shoes off at the door, and I thought she was going to cut me open for it.”

“She’s all bark,” she rolls her eyes, biting back a laugh. Throughout their childhood, Betty can remember the few – _very_ few – instances that Jughead submitted himself to being in Alice Cooper’s presence. It was as if he were always trying to duck into her peripheral vision, hovering nervously behind Archie or Betty, in an attempt to dodge the scrutiny of those icy eyes.

Aside from growing an entire foot taller in eighth grade, Jughead has changed surprisingly little in the past ten years, Betty realizes.

Eying the bag in his grasp, she asks, “What’s that?”

He presents it forward, nudging it into her arms. Nodding like a wise sage, he says, “Nothing can turn a bad weekend around like a burger.”

She blinks down at it for a moment, regarding it like a foreign object, before warm flattery spreads across her features. She opens the bag, shuffles its contents around with a small smile. “Wow. You actually left me a couple fries at the bottom, too.”

“I’ve been trying to practice some self-discipline,” he explains without missing a beat, “but the drive from Pop’s to here took so _long_. My blood sugar almost bottomed out. I needed a pick-me-up.”

“It’s a five-minute drive, Jug,” she laughs, nibbling on one of the leftovers. Jughead’s gluttony was so unforgiving, Betty was actually surprised that the burger itself had managed to survive until now.

“This is the part where you’re _supposed_ to thank me,” he reminds her, his tone playfully pushy. His lips twitch at the corners, like he is fighting back a grin.

Betty smiles, and her voice is earnest. “Thank you, Jughead. Really. For everything.”

Her sincerity must catch him off guard, because he spends a moment blinking at her before shrugging. “No problem. That’s what friends are for.”

It sounds so simple, so matter-of-fact coming from him. Betty thinks of the other people that she considered friends and wonders if they would go through half as much trouble for her sake. She decides to squash the thought before she gets too far with it.

“I owe you. Big time,” Betty says, curling the bag shut. “Pick a day and time, and I’m treating you to a meal at Pop’s.”

“You know the way to my heart,” he dreamily sighs. “I’m gonna hold you to that, y’know.”

“I would hope so,” she smiles.

A brief silence settles between them. Betty guesses that this weekend is the most time she has spent, alone, with Jughead in years. She isn’t entirely sure what to say, and he must feel the same way. She fights the urge to squirm, to awkwardly shuffle in place.

Jughead breaks the silence with a hum, idly patting his hands against his jeaned thighs. “Whelp, Hot Dog’s outside in my car, and he’s probably barking up a storm right now…”

“Oh, right.” Betty says, trying to hide the disappointment in her tone. Part of her had hoped he would stick around, indulge in a kitchen raid and hole up in her room for the evening. The idea sounds funny even as she imagines it, the vision of Jughead placed against the florals and frills that envelop her bedroom. Throughout their childhood, she can’t recall Jughead ever even treading past her front porch – and he spent those few instances sending Archie’s front yard desperate glances. 

Still, an evening with Jughead definitely beat her current plans of sulking in bed and feeling sorry for herself.

“Thanks for this, by the way. I really appreciate it.” She continues, gesturing at the bag.

“Anytime, Betty~” Jughead hums, his voice light as he starts for the door.

His retreating back sets off an urgency in her, and she finally musters the courage to ask a question that had been gnawing at her since that morning. “I didn’t… say anything weird last night, did I?”

She’s always hearing stories, about drunk girl-talk. Girls whispering sordid confessions as Smirnoff hangs heavy on their breath, a haunting edge to their tones that isn’t normally present. She's witnessed it herself, when Polly called and told her about cheating on her college boyfriend, and the time Veronica cried into her shoulder at a sleepover and told her that her parents don’t sleep in the same bed anymore. Betty hoped she wasn’t that kind of girl.

Jughead goes still, his back still facing her. There’s a pause – it’s a brief pause, but it’s there nonetheless – before he says, “No, I don’t think so.”

His tone is vague, almost tight, and she wants to question it, but him trying to toe his feet back into his Vans steals her attention. She catches a glimpse of his socks, neon green with a cartoon hamburger print, and laughs until she is breathless. 

 

*

 

Monday morning comes, and Betty feels like the weekend is still seeping off of her. Part of her ponders when she will finally be able to shake it off, rub the last of its residue from her warm eyes. She hasn’t yet been able to shower or sleep it off, so perhaps her solace will lie in routine. Waking up at seven, sweeping her hair into a ponytail, kissing her father goodbye.

She knows she left the house at a quarter to eight, but she has no idea what time it is now. She has caught herself checking her pocket for her phone several times now. That phantom vibration, like a severed limb. But part of her likes the disconnect, especially after the tumultuous weekend. Maybe she’ll wait a while before asking for a replacement. Maybe she’ll never get another phone at all.

Walking to school, her backpack straps digging into her shoulders, she tries to ignore the gnawingly emptiness beside her. She fights the urge to bound next door, knock on the Andrews’ door, make sure Archie didn’t oversleep again. Her solace may lie in routine, and this is breaking one that is eleven years in the making, but she can’t bring herself to face those eyes yet.

It has been two days since she saw or spoke to him, and it feels like it has spanned for an eternity. The last time she remembers such a disruption was years ago, when the Coopers vacationed in gladed Florida for a week. Alice kept scolding her for wanting to buy two versions of every souvenir – a Minnie for her and a Mickey for Archie. When they returned, sunburned and wrung-dry, Archie was waiting on their front lawn even though it was hours past his bedtime. Watching from the backseat, seeing the flash of headlights illuminating that gap-toothed smile and frantic wave, Betty’s chest had fluttered in a way she never felt before.

Now, her throat burns, thinking of how that boyish wonder has chiseled itself into someone so similar yet so different. She hunches her shoulders and keeps her gaze fixated on the sidewalk for the rest of the way to school.

 

 

*

 

“ _Baby.”_

The word is said in a threatening hiss, and Jughead barely has time to brace himself before his mother’s hand is on his ear, tugging and twisting until he yelps.

“How many times have I told you not to carry my plates outside?” Gladys continues, scowling as Jughead practically leaps out of her hold, those green eyes narrowed. “Use the Tupperware, for Christ’s sake.” 

From the kitchen bar, Jellybean titters as she finishes the last of her cereal. Jughead shoots her a glare as he follows their mother back into the kitchen, a plate of waffles in his hands.

He watches as Gladys resumes maneuvering around the kitchen, puts an empty glass in the sud-topped sink. There’s a maple syrup stain on her grocery store uniform, but Jughead is hesitant to point it out.

“I don’t know how you can eat so much,” Gladys continues, opening a cabinet and retrieving a plastic container. “Your father runs on coffee and cigarettes, and I _know_ you didn’t get it from me.”

Jughead raises an eyebrow as she sets the Tupperware on the counter for him. He begins to scrape his breakfast into it, dodging another swat for using his hands instead of a fork. “So, you’re saying I should start smoking?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass,” Gladys tisks. She earns another startled cry when her fingers find his ear again. “And stop playing with that food. You’re going to make your sister late for school.”

“I doubt she’d mind,” he mutters, rubbing at his ear as he pops the container’s lid shut. The retort earns him another pointed glare, which sends him retreating towards his sister with more urgency than necessary.

“C’mon, J.B.,” he says, tugging on one of her pigtails as he passes her chair.

As he enters the living room, he calls out a farewell to his mother. He can hear Jellybean shuffling behind him as slips the Tupperware into his backpack and kneels down to put on his shoes. She begins to follow suit, lacing up her black high tops with a practiced ease. Jughead eyes them and quietly wonders what happened to the rainbow Sketchers that she used to love so much.

“I don’t know how you can eat that much either,” Jellybean tells him, her eyes meeting his as he stands again, “especially since you were sick over the weekend.”

Jughead stops shrugging on his backpack to shoot her a confused look. “What are you talking about? I wasn’t sick.”

“ _Yes,_ you were.” she says, an annoyed edge to her tone. “I heard you throwing up the other night.”

Realization hits Jughead like a semitruck, and he has to stifle cringing at the memory that comes with it. Half asleep, having to twist his fingers into Betty’s hair while she heaved into his trashcan. She had apologized profusely, nearly cried from embarrassment, and insisted helping him with the cleanup, but instead wound up falling back asleep before Jughead could even _begin_ to think of a way to properly dispose of the mess.

If he concentrates, he can still smell the nauseating mixture of vomit and Lysol. He hopes Jellybean doesn’t notice his shudder.

“Oooh. _That.”_ Jughead slaps his forehead, like he is just now remembering. “Yeah. I, uh, ate some old Snoballs. Like, _really_ old Snoballs.”

Jellybean wrinkles her nose in disgust but nods understandingly. “My friend Marcy did that once. She got halfway through a Twinkie before she saw the expiration date was, like, the year before. I had never saw somebody’s face turn green like that before.” Then, grinning like a devil, “It was kind of cool.”

“You’re a weirdo,” Jughead teases, tugging at her hair again as he passes her and advances for the door. It earns him a squawk of protest this time, those dark eyebrows furrowing.

“Says the guy that keeps a bottle of hot sauce in his backpack!” Jellybean calls after him. He pretends not to hear her as he bounds down the front porch steps.

Settling into his Altima, he is already buckled up before he notices Jellybean hasn’t gotten in yet. She is still standing there, the car door popped open. “Jellybean—”

“Whose high heels?” Jellybean asks, slurring around her braces.

Hooked under her fingers are Betty’s white pumps from Saturday night. Jughead’s blood runs cold. He thanks the heavens for his ability to think on his feet. Feigning nonchalance, he shrugs. “I gave Archie and one of his girlfriends a ride home a few days ago. She must’ve forgotten them.”

Jellybean snorts, eying the heels curiously. “They’re all muddy.”

“Yeah. Gross,” Jughead says like it is the first time he is noticing it, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t know how girls wear those things.”

Jellybean smiles and tosses the shoes into the backseat floorboard. “Yeah, me neither.”

  

*

 

First period geometry is already in full swing by the time Betty jogs down the school hallway, sneakers squeaking and her ponytail swinging behind her. So engrossed by her pity party, her walk to school had slowed to a leisurely stroll. Hearing the distant tardy bell blaring from the school intercom had snapped her out of it, spurred her into action.

She almost skids into the classroom, an apology resting on her lips. Betty doesn’t think she’s ever been tardy – not even when a sudden stomach virus had her vomiting in the first-floor girl’s bathroom.

Mrs. Grundy stops her before she can start and gives her a warm smile. “Homework review. Nothing serious,” Mrs. Grundy assures her, gesturing at the class, desks pushed into pairs. Some of them have stopped their discussion to stare at her, as if she had sprouted a second head. _Betty Cooper, late?_

Betty’s eyes find him with ease. Dilton Doiley, her unofficial partner in bio lab, art projects, everything. He is unpaired, has stopped scrawling in his notebook to meet her gaze. Eyes unblinking, lips slightly parted, he looks equally bewildered.  _Betty Cooper, late?_

She approaches the empty desk beside him, begins moving it towards his, the sound grating on the linoleum. It seems to snap Dilton out of whatever trans he has fallen into. He jumps, blinking up at her behind those black-rimmed glasses. He’s always nervous over something, Betty thinks.

“Good morning,” she greets, offering him her best student council smile despite her fluster.

He spends a moment watching her as she slides into the desk, his mouth slightly ajar. It strikes Betty as odd, though she is not unaware of Dilton’s affections for her. The way he never quite meets her eyes, color popping high on his freckled cheekbones. It’s kind of endearing, in a way.

But this gawking is anything but. She is about to ask him about it when he finally croaks out a “good morning” of his own, his gaze falling back to his textbook. Her eyes go to his hands, how he is picking at his own cuticles.

She decides to forego an interrogation – it’s early, and she certainly can’t accuse anyone else of having a bad morning when hers still feels like a fever dream. She fishes out her pencil, her binder, and begins to sift through its pages. “Oh- _kay…_ So, what did you get for the first homework problem?”

"I didn't see the video!" He suddenly squeaks, his face a vibrant pink.

Betty stops, lifts her head up to look at him. "What video?"

"It was an accident, I swear," he continues, scratching at his neck. It’s a nervous tick, the nape of his neck always rubbed raw. "I -- I only saw it 'cos Raj sent it to our group chat, and I closed it as soon as I realized what it was… I _really_ didn't mean to, Betty, I promise."

"What are you even talking about, Dilton?”

At her question, Dilton’s sputtering coms to an abrupt halt. His face turns white and he shakes his head, like he’s said too much.

“Dilton,” she half-laughs, further confused by the sudden silence, “what video?”

He’s still shaking his head, his hands falling. "I'm sorry Betty. I thought you knew."

Her interest and confusion are piqued now, watching as Dilton continues to mumble apologies. Setting her pencil down, she says, “Let me see it.”

“Uh—mmm…” He stammers, scratching at his neck again, this time so vigorously that it looks like he might draw blood, the skin bright-pink and angry. “I don’t think you’d want to. See it, I mean., It’s kind of – It’s almost like – okay, it’s _really_ pretty bad, and—”

"Dilton. Show it to me. Now,” she grinds out, her voice more demanding than she has heard in years. Had her mind not been so preoccupied, it would have startled her.

It startles Dilton, who seems to shrink at her tone even though he is nearly an entire head taller than her. Still, he obliges, and Betty can’t remember a time that Dilton has ever denied her anything _._ He shuffles through his JanSport until his hand emerges with his cell phone in tow.

The screen lights up, and Betty holds her breath.

 

*

 

Morning workouts always help Archie get into the groove for the rest of the day, loosening his limbs and bounding out any lingering drowsiness. The streetlights are still on when he leaves home, the morning air brisk and delicious, his Nikes bounding against the sidewalk.

Part of his mind is still on the homecoming dance, all starry and sublime, the team still thrumming with excitement after their victory against Greendale. The throbbing music and shining lights and Veronica’s perfume had all dazzled and dizzied him.

The locker room is desolate, a far cry from the comradery and cheers that had echoed against its walls just days prior. Archie almost thinks he is alone at first, his shoes dragging against the tile, until he hears it. A tinny sound, like it is coming from a speaker. A groan, or something. He follows it, to the corner by the showers.

It is Fangs and Jason, both poring over a cell phone, engrossed. Archie hears another sound from the phone’s speakers, one that makes the tips of his ears turn red.

“C’mon, guys,” he sighs, approaching them. “Coach will freak if he catches you watching that kind of stuff in here.”

Fangs is the first to look up, and the devilish look he sends Archie has goosebumps travelling down his spine and makes him freeze in place. He never liked Fangs, who litters the football team group chat with photos that girls send him. They are always risqué, flashes of glossy mouths and Victoria’s Secret, and sometimes even less. “ **they look like mosquito bites lmfao** ,” he had once said of a Greendale cheerleader.

Archie learned to stop opening the group chat in public, or at all.

“Andrews, _dude_ ,” he greets, and Archie doesn’t like the way he says his name. “You’ve _got_ to see this shit.”

He motions him over, those darks eyes almost manic, but it only makes Archie more reluctant. Jason finally lifts his head, his expression a cool smirk that almost reads as a challenge. Jason is always smirking, regarding Archie with a kind of patronization that never fails to provoke. During baseball season, bubblegum lodged in his cheek, smirking from the pitcher’s mound. _“Show me what you’ve got, Andrews.”_

After some hesitation, Archie advances over, fingers curling and uncurling over his athletic bag.

It’s a video, as he assumed. The phone’s flash illuminating a car’s dark interior. A Mustang, the logo glinting on the steering wheel. The lens drifts onto the cameraman’s lap, down onto a sea of blonde hair. He immediately recognizes that golden hue, and it has a swirl of doom curling into his gut.

There’s that sound from the speakers again, and Betty’s head moves to reveal a flash of skin that sends Archie stumbling backwards like he has been burned. He looks for something, anything, to focus his attention on other than the phone screen, his face burning.

“Holy fuck!” Fangs is saying, but his voice suddenly sounds distant. “She’s sucking dick!”

“That's Reggie's Mustang,” Jason says, undeterred by Fangs' mirth. He is pointing at Betty’s dress, a frothy cupcake in the car’s dark interior. “This was after homecoming, but he just posted it not too long ago."

Archie’s mind flashes back, back to Saturday night. Stumbling into his bedroom, feeling light with drowsiness, he had cast a glance next door to Betty’s bedroom window, dark and motionless. He had figured that she had an early curfew and was deep into sleep. He ignored the muffled guilt he had for not shooting her a text earlier, making sure she was okay. He could barely even remember the last time he had seen her at the dance, her dress glittering underneath the lights. He had meant to tell her how pretty she looked but it got off of his mind, distracted by Veronica’s fingers lacing between his own.

He thinks of Reggie, the times Archie has caught him looking at Betty, how he’d crane his neck follow her gait down the school hallways just to watch that cheer skirt dance for a little longer. A dangerous wrath grips Archie’s chest, punctuated with pangs of regret.

"No way," Fangs breathes, that shaggy hair swaying with every tilt of his head. "No way she was with Mantle. I saw her at Jones’ house that night."

Archie whips around so fast that he nearly loses balance, his athletic bag jerking around his waist. “What?”

Jason’s interest is piqued too, those glassy eyes widening. "You’re bullshitting."

"Swear to God," Fangs says, an uncharacteristic seriousness in his tone. "Our trailers are across from each other. I saw them with my own eyes. He helped her out of his car, and she spent the night there. I put that on everything."

It didn’t make sense. Jughead, who barely spared girls with little more than a passing glance, who always looked ready to jump out of his skin when asked about girlfriends or crushes, letting a girl spend the night? Letting _Betty_ spend the night?  

His mind feels like it is reeling, but a low whistle from Jason steals his attention. "Two guys in one night? Man, they say it's always the quiet ones..."

"Shut the fuck up," Archie suddenly snarls, his voice sounding foreign and dark in his own ears. “You don’t know anything Jason, so just shut up.”

It’s only for a second, but surprise _does_ flicker across Jason’s face before he reels it back in, replaces it with that cool Blossom bravado that never yields to intimidation. Fangs’ avid gaze bounces between them, the corners of his mouth twitching up, like he is expecting something to happen.

"You had her, Andrews." Jason shrugs in a flippant way that only makes Archie angrier. He looks back down at his phone, that flash of blonde hair still swaying mockingly on the screen. "Don't get pissed at me just because you missed your chance."

 

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment & tell me what you think.


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